


The Winchester Apocrypha

by Zophiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, Theology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zophiel/pseuds/Zophiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Mystery Spot, Gabriel starts to realize that something has gone cosmically off-track. One devoted bother with puppy dog eyes changes everything. Castiel/Dean, Gabriel/Sam, Theology, Angelology, general geekiness. Rated for the unpredictable inspirations of The Spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gabriel

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the Pen-Name Zophiel for frickin' years. Only just started watching Supernatural last winter. I used to be an amateur angelologist. So. . . yeah. I haven't seen season 8 yet, since I'm waiting for it to come out on Netflix (I don't have regular TV, since cable is too pricey). Anyway, as much as I love SPN, certain things really bug me. This is why we have fanfiction--to correct all the things the writers got wrong, lol! Anyway. . .

_Gabriel ("God is my strength") - . . . the angel of annunciation, resurrection, mercy, vengeance, death, revelation. . .quoting a Babylonian legend, Gabriel once fell into disgrace "for not obeying a command exactly as given, and remained for a while outside the heavenly Curtain." . . . According to the court testimony of Joan of Arc, it was Gabriel who inspired her to go to the succor of the King of France. . ."_

\- Excerpted from Gustav Davidson's _A Dictionary of the Angels; Including the Fallen Angels_

* * *

It was when he was looking into the pleading, desperate eyes of Sam Winchester that Gabriel finally realized that something was very wrong. _Cosmically_ wrong. Wrong like Brittney Spears being elected President of the United States, or Richard Dawkins retiring to a monastery in Kentucky, only _more_.

Something had been triggering faint alarms for some time, though he was hard pressed to remember when he had first ignored the "not-quite-right" feeling. Several centuries, at least. Now, though, confronted with the blood-stained soul of Sam Winchester, pleading and begging for his brother . . . now the feeling of wrongness was brought forcefully to mind.

It hit him with a sudden wave of nostalgia, of homesickness. Seeing the bond between the two brothers, un-shattered, un-frayed, even after a hundred deaths, Gabriel's mind dissociated from the words he was even now speaking. Words he had believed even a moment before, but were quickly becoming lies.

As much as he was telling Sam to get over it, to let his brother go, at the same time a long silent part of his mind was saying, _This is how we were supposed to be!_

Angels spoke a big game about Love and Being Brothers and Sisters, but when was the last time they had actually behaved accordingly? He cast his mind back, his memories unaccountably unclear. Discomfited, he released Sam and Dean from their loop. He needed answers.

He settled onto the branch of an ancient, gnarled oak in a park in New Orleans, furiously casting his mind back over the centuries. He had not been inclined toward introspection for a few millenia, so he was shocked at the foggy brokenness of his recollections. It was an impossibility- all angels had perfect memory. Granted, he'd been kicking around earth for a while now, but he had never fallen, as such. He was every bit an archangel now as he'd been two thousand years ago, and stand-in for a pagan deity to boot. The only way this could have happened, is if someone, or some _thing_ , had made it happen.

A soft cough to his right drew his attention to the two ravens on the branch next to him. He sighed, leaning back against the trunk. If Huginn and Muninn were visiting, he must have been on to something. He eyed the two birds warily- if there was one thing he'd learned during his time on Earth, it was a certain amount of caution. Racing to conclusions never helped anything, so best to wait and watch a while, see what he could observe. Perhaps these feelings would abate once he saw that everything was as it should be.

So he watched, as Dean Winchester's year came to an end. He watched as the Hell Hounds- there was something there that tried to tug a vanished memory-dragged the man down to Hell. Watched as his little brother, Castiel, immediately tried to dive in after, only to be forcefully restrained by Zachariah, Uriel, and Khamael. He was dismayed as he watched Zachariah casually break Castiel's wings, tearing and tangling his grace, in an effort to restrain the frantic young guardian. Pride, then, when Castiel still managed to wriggle out of their hold, an entire garrison chasing after as he dove down.

 _His teacher would be proud_. Gabriel thought, before wondering _Wait, who?_ Who was it that taught Castiel to endure such pain? To so skillfully navigate the cyclones of Hell?

Despite the speed and skill of Castiel, Dean had broken before the angel had caught hold of him, torn and mangled grace tangling with a torn and mangled soul. By some strange quirk of The Law, each seemed to sooth and heal the other as they rose, until at last Dean was safe upon the Earth.

But Castiel was not safe. Watching as Zachariah and Khamael tossed their little brother into "Re-education," Gabriel knew, beyond any doubt, that something was seriously wrong with his brothers and sisters. Castiel should have been commended, promoted, and shown as an example of what an angel should be. Not broken again, not punished for his zeal to serve.

_Well . . . shit._

He might have gone to his step-father for advice. Odin was not nearly as stuffy and pompous as some people thought- just bring him a cask of fine mead or ale and Old One-eye would talk for hours. But this circumstance was different. This was out of Odin's pay grade.

He flew to Tokyo, hoping the masses of people would help mask the source of the prayer from all but his Father.

_I know it's been a while, Dad. But something is very wrong. Some thing is wrong with my brothers and my sisters . . . and with me. Please . . . I cannot watch this happen. Please help._

Only the rushing sounds of the people below answered. _Typical._

He flew down, then, into the teeming masses of humanity, hoping to loose himself in the bright lights and ceaseless chatter for a time.

He had managed to walk half a block before a voice separated from the cacophony around him.

"Roki-sama! Roki-sama!" The voice sounded frantic. It took him a moment to recognize the name "Lord Loki" in the Japanese. "Sumimasen, minna . . . Roki-sama!"

He turned around, startled to see a small gang of humans in strange clothing. _Ah, yes, Cosplay_ , if the large hammer held by the one, and the eye-patch on another were anything to go by. It really seemed an excuse to dress in tight leather and dye the hair, but he sure as heaven wasn't going to fuss. He himself understood the fun in pretending to be someone else for a time.

The girl in the middle-Freya, perhaps? Hard to tell with the Norse-bellydance fusion look happening. The girl held out a box, bowing.

"Roki-sama," she panted, eyes fixed to the pavement beneath her. "We were told to give this to you."

Gabriel looked at the box- pink, with drawn on confetti, the word "Carvel" catching his attention. Ice cream cake. . . _Oh, the kind with the chocolate crunchies!_ Gently, he took the box with a murmur of thanks, distracted by the thought of the delectable morsels hidden within the creamy concoction, and by the message written in the icing.

EAT ME

LOKI -KUN

LOL ^_^

 _Dad Bless the Japanese_ , Gabriel thought. _So delightfully odd. . ._ "Say, who was it that-?" but they were already gone into the seething masses flowing by. No sense in letting the ice cream melt, though.

Atop a roof in Nishi-Shinjuku, facing Mt. Fuji, Gabriel dug in, delighting in the creamy icing and ice cream, and almost giggling in delight as he reached the middle layer of chocolate cruchies. She had always saved the crunchies for last.

 _Wait, who?_ Gabriel paused in his snacking- he'd never shared his love of ice cream cake with anyone. Even the other pagan deities scorned him for his love of human sweets, so he always indulged alone. But he clearly remembered that someone. . . someone had loved the crunchies as much as he himself did.

But he couldn't remember who. He wasn't sure that this budding headache was a brain freeze.

Mood broken, he continued through the cake, until his self-created spoon hit metal.

 _Ice cream cake isn't supposed to have metal in it._ This had now become archaeology. Carefully, he extracted the sliver of metal from the delectable chocolate crunchy bed, to reveal a key bearing a seal of two lions holding the sun. The logo of the Nippon Ginko, the central bank of Japan.

The rest of the ice cream- _and crunchies!_ -was quickly finished off. The key was for a safe deposit box, which opened to reveal nothing save a postal delivery ticket.

So he took the ticket to the designated depot, and traded it in for a box, addressed to:

UNCLE GABRY L. GODSON

2-1-1 Nihonbashi-Hongokucho,

Chuo-ku,Tokyo 103-0021 Japan

Which was the address of the bank he had just left. But the really disturbing part was that someone had clearly connected Gabriel with Loki. The called for caution. Downtown Tokyo was not the place to be opening a box that might be the metaphysical equivalent of a mail-bomb.

Los Alamos should be safe enough.

He sat down in the dust, the desert sun doing its best to pound him down further, but he ignored it, tearing the pull-strip off the side of the box, and pulling out a fat envelope. There was a coin taped to the outside- a silver Franc, above another message.

_Time to wake up, Uncle._

He peeled the coin off, rubbing it between his fingers, remembering the young girl who had given it to him those centuries ago as a gift. He had no need for currency, but he had always liked the warmth of silver, the way it felt soft to his touch. A token from a troubled girl who had no wealth of her own, but insisted on giving all she had away to everyone she met.

He could feel it, now, the press as a wall in his mind strained, as memories fuzzed in and out of focus. The coin had been a token of friendship, a remembrance for when she was gone. Friends. The way it was _supposed_ to be.

Determined, he tore open the envelope, immediately overcome by the explosion of scent- sandalwood, frankinsence, cedar, myrrh but above all, _roses!_ As though the whole desert around him suddenly bloomed as sky blue silk poured out into his hands.

And then, the wall was gone, and he _remembered!_ He remembered the little angel, small and quiet, fastest wing in all of heaven, that helped hold the arms of Moses upon the hill, that whispered plans to the ear of Judith and taught her to use her enemy's sword. The angel that stood by the Women Who Watched, the angel that held the Mother as she wept over the fate of her Son. The angel that stood silently by as little Joan was tried and sentenced to death b fire for sins that were not her own.

And he remembered how, exactly, she had been created.

He wept then, truly understanding just how messed up the story had gotten.

But he laughed a little, too, and he brought the silk veil up to his face, breathing in the flowers and spices. Because he had been given the answer he prayed for.

Time to go find her. Time to start fixing this mess.

* * *


	2. Uriel

**Angel of Music-** in Islamic lore, the angel of music is identified with as Israfel (Israfil), who is often equated with Uriel.

 **Uriel** ("fire of God") - one of the leading angels of noncanonical lore, and ranked variously as a seraph, cherub, regent of the sun, flame of God, angel of the Presence, presider over Tartarus (Hades), archangel of salvation . . . In _Enoch I_ , he is the angel who "watches over thunder and terror." . . . Uriel is also the angel of the month of September and may be invoked ritually by those born in that month. _The Magus_ claims that alchemy "which is of divine origin" was brought down to earth by Uriel, and that it was Uriel who gave the cabala to man, although this "key to the mystical interpretation of scripture" is also said to have been the gift of Metatron. Milton describes Uriel as "Regent of the Sun" and the "sharpest sighted spirit of all in Heaven" ( _Paradise Lost III_ ). . . Despite his eminence, Uriel was reprobated at a Church Council in Rome, 745 C.E. Now, however, he is Saint Uriel, and his symbol is an open hand holding a flame. . .The most recent appraisal of Uriel is the one offered by Walter Clyde Curry in _Milton's Ontology Cosmology and Physics_ , where, on p. 93, Professor Curry says of Uriel that he "seems to be largely a pious but not too perceptive physicist with inclinations towards atomistic philosophy." To illustrate in what high esteem Uriel was held, we find him described in the 2nd book of the _Sibylline Oracles_ as one of the "immortal angels of the undying God" who, on the day of judgement, will "Break the monstrous bars framed of unyielding and unbroken adamant of the brazen gates of Hades, and cast them down straightaway, and bring forth to judgement all the sorrowful forms, yea, of the ghosts of the ancient Titans and of the giants, and all whom the flood overtook. . . and all these shall he bring to the judgment seat. . .and set before God's seat."

\- Excerpted from Gustav Davidson's _A Dictionary of Angels; Including the Fallen Angels_

_._

Often identified with . . . the angel "who watches over thunder and terror," Uriel appears to be a pretty heavy dude, and as such his Presidency of Hell seems most appropriate.

-From Malcolm Godwin's _Angels; An Endangered Species_

_._

Uriel was my first teacher. He is the definition of "gravitas". While it all depends on the system used, under the approach I learned, Uriel was the Guardian of the North, and associated with elemental Earth- with rich, deep soil and growing things. Also, therefore, with death, midnight, and winter. He is a hard-ass, like any dedicated musician, but he is also patient, so long as effort is true.

_\- The Author_

* * *

.

The sudden feeling of banishment compounded the irritation Uriel had been experiencing as a part of working with Castiel. How in creation that angel had flown through Hell and back and maintained his naivete was beyond his ken. Even after the Samhain debacle, that angel _still_ tried to defend the two mud-mokeys. Ridiculous!

He frowned as he re-established himself, not where he expected to be. Usually, he either re-established back in Heaven, or on the western shore of Lake Meelva in Estonia. Someone or something had managed to divert him, as this was neither of those places. By the sound and smell, he was somewhere near San Francisco. His eyes, however, did not look up to the sight of the bay only a few hundred yards away. Instead, they were arrested by the sight of a djembe, the chalice shaped ebony supporting the stretched goat skin. His eyes narrowed- not just any drum, this was the first of its kind. The very one he'd crafted when teaching the first generations of humans about time. . . They'd thought the carvings to be mystical incantations. In a way, they were right. The mystical, at least, from their point of view. What it really said, in Enochian, was:

_This Drum is the Property of Uriel. Hands off, morons- this includes you, Gabriel!_

His lips curved in a small smile. How long since he had last seen this drum? He cast his mind back over the ages, growing slightly alarmed as it seemed that large chunks of his memory were missing. He remembered teaching the humans, remembered that young blind Roman girl who was able to see him and hear his voice. . .and then, suddenly, nothing but cold, unyielding discipline.

The sound of approaching human voices pulled him from his memories.

"-I don't know. He said his flight was canceled due to some freak storm. Said he'd called a guy he knew that could sub, Uri or something. How's that supposed to work, though? New drummer, show in an hour. . ."

Hn. He considered the drum, the continuing conversation around the corner of the building. He wasn't some narrow-minded human, to hold by that superstition called "Coincidence". No . . . Someone was clearly trying to send him a message. Very well, he'd play along. For now.

It was easy to convince the dancers that he was the "Uri" in question, despite their natural wariness. Females who danced learned quickly to be suspicious of strange men, but it was nothing a light skimming of their minds couldn't remedy. The one for whom he was to play - Rachel- had located a "crappy recording of a recent practice with Ricky. It's just on the phone, but it's what we have. . .". He watched the small screen once, learning not just the patterns of the "song", but also noting her small cues- glances and shifts and little signals with the hands and eyes. Her improvisational style reminded him of. . .someone. The memory slipped away before he could fully grasp it. Interesting.

She was skeptical, of course, but that melted away as he began to play the solo he'd just heard, beat for beat, figure for figure. Midway, she jumped up from her seat on the floor and picked up her dance, spine rolling and hips swaying in precise, controlled movements. He noticed she wasn't fully dancing- her control was too precise, a slight hesitation to her movements as she still didn't entirely trust his playing. Still, when he had finished up, she turned with relief in her eyes. "Well, damn," she said with a small grin. "This might work out after all. You're freaking amazing!"

The performance hall was small, but filled with an audience that ranged from well-bred businesswomen, to homeless men off the streets, to university students awash in their own brilliance. He watched Rachel as she took the stage, watched as her soul almost immediately shifted, as though the eyes of the audience had awoken it from slumber. Then they began.

He kept his eyes locked on her form as his fingers and hands moved of their own accord. He saw the exact moment when she forgot that he wasn't her normal drummer, forgot her own self and lost herself to the symbiotic interplay of rhythm and flow, of cue between hand and sound. He watched, amazed, as her soul surged to the confines of the fragile shell that rippled and twisted, watched as the souls in the audience rose in answer, felt his own grace leech out into the rhythms he played.

The mix of Soul and Grace suddenly resounded in a perfect chord, and he became aware of a Presence he hadn't felt since- then memory! A cascade of image and sound . . .

 _Almost back at The Beginning, the little one his student, learning to dance at Anael's side as he played. She had a voice like her fathers', and their impeccable rhythm, but seemed to lack the manual dexterity needed for psalter or trump. But when she danced, laughed, and sang, their family would sing back_ Io! Io! Io! _. . ._

_Later then, along the Great River, helping her to teach a young Miriam to sing and to dance in the days before her brother found the Way. . ._

_The first time she flew the full extent of her range, watching from afar as she flew and danced along the Hell-gales with ease that outstripped even the oldest demons. Watched as her dance gained a fierceness, her fingers finally finding their use as she picked up her Papa's knives, as she danced with her Daddy's spear. Watched as she came back for such a brief time, to deliver a single kiss. . ._

_He saw her in the mountains of Japan, the Carolina Swamps in the late 18th Century, the French Resistance of the 20th . . ._

The wave ebbed, in time to see Rachel's finger flick to bring it to a close. He watched, stunned, starting to understand just what might make these humans so very special, as she panted and bowed, sweat dripping off her nose onto the stage. But she was grinning, and the audience was on their feet, clear to all that something very special had just occurred.

He followed her offstage, content to quietly take his leave now that she had no more use for him, but she caught his elbow before he could walk away.

She collapsed against the wall, untying one of her hip scarves to wipe her face. "Hey," she started, between deep breaths. "I don't know who- I don't know _what_ you are-" she met his eyes, and he was startled to see tears. "But thank you. I will never forget the gift you have given me." She reached up to the back of her neck. "It may be crazy, but . . ." she sighed. "I was given this years ago, told that I was to pass it on, that I would know who when the time came. . ." She held out the chain that held a thin, black pendant. "A gift for a gift."

He held out his hand- for the pendant was a small flake of obsidian shaped like a feather. Razor sharp along the edges, no human - no human female, especially- should have been able to wear it without injury. And yet Rachel was unharmed. Most miracles were so small they were easily missed.

He fastened the chain around his neck, thumbs brushing the chain that was already there, holding Anna's Grace. Ah, Understanding.

He bowed to the dancer. "The honor was mine"

Time to change the rhythm of this dance.


	3. Anael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter shows the first solid departure from the, er, "Gospel Canon". Also, don't know why, but Anael insisted that this chapter be written in a different tense. I usually use a past tense, but she very much wanted the reflective immediacy of present tense. *shrugs* Gingers, eh? ;p

**Anael** (Haniel, Hamiel, Onoel, Ariel, etc) - one of the 7 angels of Creation, chief of Principalities, prince of archangels, and ruler of the Friday angels. Anael exercises dominion over the planet Venus, is one of the luminaries concerned with human sexuality. . . in Longfellow's _The Golden Legend_ , Anael is one of the angels of the 7 planets, specifically the angel of the Star of Love (i.e., the Evening Star or Venus). In the Book of Tobit, Anael is the name of Tobit's brother.

 **Haniel** (Aniel, Hamiel, Onoel, Hanael- "Glory or Grace of God" or "He who sees God") - angel of the month of December, chief of the order of principalities, virtues (tarshishim), and innocents, according to Barrett, _The Magus_. . . .He figures in the list of 7 (or 10) archangels and the 10 Holy Sephiroth. Variants of the name occur [including]. . .Anael . . .Haniel has been compared to the Chaldean Ishtar (who ruled Venus) and is invoked as an amulet against evil.

 **Netzach** ("victory, firmness")- the 7th of the 10 Holy Sephiroth (emanations of God). The personalized angel of Netzach is Haniel (Anael) of the order of Elohim.

\- from Gustav Davidson's _A Dictionary of Angels; Including the Fallen Angels_

* * *

.

The pain of memory rushing back in is unbearable, as though every moment remembered happened anew, all at once. For a brief moment, in threatens to tear apart her fragile, human brain, but the moment passes, and she is panting on the cot in the panic room, the blind psychic at her side.

Quickly, she sorts through the new data, immediately disturbed she finds that it is incomplete. _Perhaps,_ she thinks, _when I get my Grace back, that will fix this fault_. She remembers Before, and she remembers why she left- her brothers and sisters acting strange, saying disturbing, UnTrue things. The odd behavior spreading like some sort of thought-plague, and knowing that she cannot let it catch her. So she runs and, like the Morning Star, throws herself down upon the Earth. She tears out her Grace, hoping for safety in anonymity. No angel more safe than angel that can't remember what she is. At least, that's what . . . _someone_. . . always said.

That safety is gone, now, so she must find her Grace. A knowing angel without Grace was a walking target. She'd have to find another way. But first things first. She is fortunate to already have the acquaintance of the two humans best qualified to assist her.

She is slightly embarrassed to need Pamela's assistance out of the panic room, but her human body is still re-gathering its strength. She tells the two young men the truth about herself, and is oddly warmed by how quickly they accept the fact, Sam immediately getting to work to find the most likely locations for her lost Grace. Poor Sam- she understands now why some of her family don't like him, but they are not without blame in his situation. He's stumbling about as best he can, despite the all the lies that everyone has been telling him. She looks closer, and smiles- Gabriel will be a very lucky angel, if he can ever get his crap together.

As expected, Sam hones in on the location in a matter of minutes, and they pile into The Impala- for some reason, the vehicle is capitalized in her mind, as though it were the Platonic ideal of all Impalas. The drive from Sioux Falls to Union, Kentucky reminds her of her human childhood, of cross-country road trips with her parents, visiting what seemed like every small church along the way. Those had been happy times of seeing the world, singing hymns with her parents as they chased the horizon.

This drive winds through Davenport and Peoria and their endless post-harvest fields, then around Indianapolis, passing dairy farms selling fresh cheese, down to just past Cincinnati into Kentucky, where they turn off onto Mt. Zion Road, and park in the lot for St. Elizabeth's Physicians Center. It is not hymns sung this time- but with a twist of amusement, she sings along with Dean when AC/DC starts playing "Highway to Hell." Which is then balanced by "Stairway to Heaven." Human humor is dark, sometimes, but still quite appealing for all its sometimes predatory flavors.

It is not hard to find the tree- across the street is an open field on a slight rise, and a single towering oak twisting it's way skyward. After thirteen hours in the car, it is good to stretch the legs again, to feel the sunset breeze across her skin. Both her human and angel sentiments agree that the tree is beautiful, and it is with soft reverence that she brushes her fingers over the rough bark.

She is suddenly overtaken by another memory, poignant in it's eerie similarity. Again, there is only one tree, again the sky is multi-hued. . .

_"You have wings, silly! You know that you can fly to the top if you wish?"_

_"But Auntie Ana!" the giggling voice replies. "I can also do this!" The little form twists and pulls and leaps, one branch to the next. "This is fun, Auntie. . . what is it?"_

_She smiles. "This has been called a Tree. I thought you would like it."_

_A small face peers out from a spray of shimmering silver-green leaves, eyes suddenly old and deep. "Because the tree reaches down so very far, and reaches up so very far, but lives mostly in the middle. . . right?"_

_Anael nods. "And also because the Tree makes space within itself to shelter many, and offers fruit to eat and even its own wood for warmth and shelter."_

_The silence is somewhat heavy, the little one's eyes drifting down to where the roots plunge into the soil, and Anael knows that she is thinking of her Papa. A sudden chattering and flurry of movement distracts them both, two small furry things with fluffy tails chasing each other around branches and up the tree trunk._

_"What are those, Auntie?"_

_Anael thinks a moment. "I believe Adam has named them 'squirrels'"_

_She sees the serious nod in her peripheral. "When I grow up, Auntie, I'm gonna be a squirrel!"_

_She laughs despite herself, the serious air dissipated. "You are an angel, little one, you cannot grow into a squirrel!"_

_"Nuh-uh!" the little form drops down a few branches in protest, little eyes twinkling with humor. "Auntie Gabriel and Uncle Raphael say I can grow up to be whatever I wanna be, and I wanna be a squirrel, because squirrels have awesome tails, they're so, so. . ._ poof _!"_

_She chuckles, unable to argue such childish logic. "Alright silly squirrel, let's go tell your Daddy about your new plans . . ."_

In a breath, she is brought back to the present, hands pressing into the bark of this lesser- but still magnificent- tree in Kentucky.

"What's that about squirrels?" Dean grunts from near her shoulder.

She huffs lightly. "A memory, nothing more." She turns to the two humans and the demon standing nearby. "My grace isn't here. Someone must have found it and taken it." The list of beings who could have taken it is quite small, but after thirteen hours on the road, not even Sam's mind is up to wrestling with that puzzle. She studies the two humans as they each loose themselves in thought. That memory, small as it was, shifted the perspective of everything else. Dean with his solid determination and devotion to his brother, and Sam, echoing that devotion, each ready to do literally anything for the other. Her eyes rest upon Sam. _Into the breach once more . . ._

Because of her new perspective, she does not tell them what she hears on "Angel Radio"- the angels issuing their ultimatum. It is a lie, she knows now, because there is no way they will allow Dean Winchester to return to Hell. They find a cheap motel and crash for a few hours, before hitting the road again. Somewhere along the way, Ruby leaves, and with her a measure of the brooding tension that had suffused the Impala since the evening before.

Back at Bobby's, she gives the list of who might have her grace- considering her former rank, it's a small list: Father, Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Raziel, Jophiel, Remiel, Metatron, Sandalphon, Tzadkiel. If Lucifer were free, his name would be on the list. Some names can immediately be removed- Father, Michael, Gabriel, Metatron . . . this is not something they would do. The others . . . it is hard to say. Her own biases and still incomplete memory hamper her logic, so she allows Sam and Bobby to takeover, and goes to watch the sunset. The stars are out by the time Dean joins her, asking why an angel would fall, would voluntarily leave Heaven and, with disgust in his voice, "become one of us?"

Such a human sentiment, to think so little of himself, of his existence. _Like a sunbeam that believed itself to be only the small flicker of light on the forest floor._ He's not yet able to grasp this truth that he is asking for, but perhaps she can plant some seeds. So she tells him about all the good things humans have, and there's a brief back and forth, reminiscent of a scene from Disney's _Aladdin._

There is a moment when his teasing might develop into something more, but she halts it quickly.

"It's not that I _wouldn't_ ," she says with a grin. "As the angel of the sphere of Netzach, Eros is _very much_ my thing. But you are not in full possession of your faculties, and there are risks I will not take."

"Full possession of my- you think I'm drunk or somethin'?" He sounds somewhat affronted, and she hastens to reassure.

"Not at all, Dean. You simply haven't remembered everything yet. When you do, you will be glad I did not give in to my own desire this time."

She does not mention that when Castiel remembers- and she is sure that he will, soon- he would not accept such interference either. He may not be an archangel, and he may not remember it yet, but he is the most talented protege of Heaven's Assassin- which means that strength matters little when he decides on a target. And being caught between such an angel and the talented, human student of Alistair. . . no, she's not that sort of idiot.

Dean is wearing that constipated scowl that indicates displeasure that hasn't yet found words. There's also a look of befuddlement around the eyebrows. She gently touches his cheek with her fingertips.

"When next you dream, skip to the end. Remember how it ended. Then you will understand."

.

They arrive at the warehouse early, but are surprised when Uriel and Castiel show up right after. The humans are immediately on the defensive, and look at Castiel as though he as betrayed them. He hasn't though, she can see that- he might be wearing a "non-expression", but even without her Grace, she can see the tension around his eyes, broadcasting his acute distress. _Smart boy, he knows things are wrong, even if he can't remember how they should be._

Uriel shocks everyone though when, instead of speaking, he raises his empty palms in a very human gesture, and then pulls a chain off from around his neck. It is her Grace, shining brightly in the dim light, calling to her.

"Forgive me, sister," He says. "I was not in full possession of my faculties when I took this." She and Dean startle at his phrasing. She knows Uriel was not around last night- he has never been able to disguise the heavy feeling of his presence, even from humans. He could not have heard what she said to Dean. But that he would use the same phrase, in such a similar way . . .

She takes the pendant from her brother as Castiel murmurs, "But, our orders. . ." He is confused but, when she glances up to his face, she sees the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Funny thing about our orders," Uriel says with a smirk. "Zachariah received them as an email while we were gathered in that bistro in Soho. As such, they were written in English, not Enochian. And, in English, the meaning of _'to take care of someone'_ can have two very opposite meanings. . . "

.

There are no words in any language that can describe the feeling of being reunited with Grace. She is finally whole again, in memory and in being, and she now understands what has been happening. After such a thing, the arrival of the demons is almost anti-climactic. Castiel attacks with a ferocious focus, Dean wide-eyed as the usually mild-mannered "Nerd Angel" transforms into a demon-killing machine before his eyes, all deadly grace and cold efficiency. Anael casually lifts Ruby's knife as she flees- she allows the demon to run for now-she may still be of use. Anael more concerned with the fight between Dean and Alistair.

The human needs this, needs to release all the poison that's been building in his psyche due to the sadist's work. Sam seems to understand this, and uses the last of his augmented strength to pin the demon while Dean attacks. She can see, now, that they both need this. Dean needs the cathartic release of confronting his tormentor- with Sam at his side. And Sam needs to be able to do something to help his brother, to affirm that perhaps he's not as useless as he was starting to suspect himself of being.

It is with a smile that Anael offers the knife to Dean, and with a grin that she watches the infamous Alistair die at the hands of his most talented student.

 _Justice,_ she thinks, _tastes a lot like a good cup of coffee._


	4. Castiel

**Cassiel** (Casiel, Casziel, Kafziel)- the angel of solitudes and tears who"Shews forth the unity of the eternal kingdom". . . Sometimes he appears as the angel of Temperence . . .

 **Kafziel** (Cassiel, "speed of God")- . . . In The Zohar (Numbers 155a), Kafziel serves with Hizkiel as chief aide to Gabriel when the latter bears his standard in battle.

 **Castiel** \- A Thursday angel mentioned in occult lore.

_-Gustov Davidson_

There are hints, here and there across "the lore", that Castiel is in fact a lesser-used name of the better-known Cassiel. Few references come out an say it in the way they do for Jophiel, Uzziel, et al., but there are often indirect references, wherein an author will be writing about Cassiel, and will suddenly refer to the angel as Castiel, before switching back to Cassiel. Davidson does this, as do others, enough that it isn't simply one man's typo. One starts to suspect that perhaps the difference between Castiel and Cassiel is like the difference between Bruce Wayne and Batman- the former is an easily dismissed elite, the latter is The Dark Knight of Gotham. Perhaps it is that, indeed, Cassiel and Castiel are the same angel, but this is a fact never mentioned directly, never spoken of . . . perhaps for a reason. The mass unconscious may be aware of this truth, but perhaps looking directly at that truth is, for some reason, akin to looking directly at a Gorgon. Too dangerous a thing to do.

I do not know why this would be so, except the sneaking suspicion that G*D is a crafty, sneaky guy, and He's pranking the hell out of Twenty-First Century Pop-Culture. Just when you thought you were safe in your cynicism and blasphemous irreverence, you hear something *snap* and a small Voice mimicking Dave Chapelle " _Ha! Gotcha bitch!"_

_-The Author_

* * *

_Adrift._

Like that time in the waters southeast of Punta Alta.

_What time was that?_

The impressions of thick fog and creaking wood flashed through his mind, vanished before they took cohesive texture. Most of his memory was like that, from what he could tell. It wasn't supposed to be, but it _was_. The lack of clarity signified something, and he suspected that it was somehow connected to the ever present discomfort - _was this what they called "pain?"_ \- that throbbed and echoed in his grace.

He couldn't let it show- not to those he didn't trust. That lesson - _from whom?_ \- remained. Never let them see your thoughts, not if you don't trust them. He should be able to trust those who were his brothers and sisters. . . but he _didn't_.

He did, however, trust Dean. Flawed as the human was, _"Equal parts belligerence and devotion"_ as . . . _someone_ . . . had once said, even so, he trusted the human. And if you trusted someone, it meant you informed them of your vulnerabilities. Thus, when the Seal of Samhain had been broken, he had revealed his confusion to Dean. Not the full depths of it- Dean was a Good Man, _Righteous_ even, but was not the abstract thinker that his brother Sam was. He may have over-simplified the problem, but he did disclose the essence of it.

_Confusion. Uncertainty._

__. . . Doubt._ _

Things were not right, but he didn't know what right _was_.

He'd thought that he was the only angel wrestling with such cosmic cognitive dissonance. Uriel had seemed so rock-solid, Zachariah so certain, Raphael so firm and unyielding - although that itself seemed not-right somehow. But then the orders had come about Anael- currently calling herself Anna- and the confusion had roared louder than that hungy lion he'd provoked that time near Guna Tarara. (Why, or when, he had been provoking a hungry lion he couldn't remember.)

At first, Uriel had been an avalanche of certainty- Anna had to die, no matter that she was still their sister. No matter that the Winchester boys were instinctively so dead-set against it. This was the Command of Heaven, so that is what they had to do.

Castiel almost mentioned that "Heaven" does not mean the same thing as "God"- but his superiors were very sure, and very strong. And if there was one thing that his memory _didn't_ fail him on, it was what happens to angels who don't follow orders.

Then Anna had called upon long dormant knowledge and banished the two of them. While he knew he wasn't supposed to condone Rebellion, her successful banishment had felt so _right . . ._ the twist of approval that spiked through him as he was blasted into the ether was _quite_ inappropriate. Clearly, he was being unduly influenced by his charge and said charge's brother.

But then, when they'd re-established themselves and met up at the top of Mt. Rainier, Uriel had been different. Calmer perhaps? _Less Yang and more Yin_ , a voice had whispered in his mind. Thoughtful. Pensive. Almost . . . _gentler_. Uriel had looked at him askance, weighing and measuring.

And then, almost hesitant. "I have much to atone for." His dark eyes traced something in Castiel's grace that the latter could not perceive. "And much that I have helped wound I am unable to heal." A sigh, sad and weary. "But I will do everything I can, Little Brother, to help you become whole again."

Castiel kept his emotions perfectly still. "I have no memory of you doing anything that calls for atonement, much less anything involving myself."

"And that is only the _beginning_ of what is wrong." Uriel sighed with a sad smile.

Even so, Castiel was still surprised when they'd gone after Anna and, instead of utilizing his formidable strength to subdue the entire town and everyone in it including the lost angel, Uriel had simply taken the chain from around his neck, and offered Anna's grace back to her. It seemed impossible, even at that moment, that the Will of Heaven would be diverted so easily- but then Uriel was a rather formidable angel, so perhaps he had more ability to change the course of such a river. He tried very hard to suppress the spark of hope that flared as Anael became whole once more. For the first time in. . . he didn't know _how_ long. . . something was _Right_!

The arrival of the demons provided a wonderful moment to fall back into natural habit, enjoying the feeling of cleaning and polishing these stains out of Father's Creation. He felt Dean's eyes watch in surprise, briefly noting to himself that this was the first time since his resurrection that his charge had seen him fight. When he was done, he turned in time to see Anael offer Ruby's knife to Dean, Sam using the last of his enhanced strength to hold Alistair in place.

Dean was magnificent.

But still tense, twitching warily as Castiel approached to heal his wounds. Like many humans, Dean disliked showing evidence of vulnerability, finding it very hard to trust. Castiel knew that Dean trusted him, but the reflexive tensing was a habit carved into muscle memory. Even so, he relaxed, allowing the angel to "work his angel mojo".

"I gotta confess to being a bit surprised," Anael's voice filled the post-fight silence. "Based on our last meeting, I expected to die. . . "

Castiel felt Uriel's shrug as Creation quietly warped around him. "I was not in my right mind." His low voice soft and chastened. "Haven't been for some time. Centuries, at least. Maybe millenia. . . I had a part in _that_."

Castiel finished with Dean and turned in time to see Uriel pointing right at him.

"Eech," Anael grimaced, looking Castiel up and down. "His teacher's gonna be _pissed_."

"You remember her?" Uriel's face was transformed with shocked hopefulness.

"Of course I remember. You and I taught her how to sing and dance when she was small . . ." She trailed off in the face of Castiel's growing confusion.

"It seems that most of us have lost our memory of her," Uriel sighed. "I think that started the mind-sickness you were fleeing when you fell. Now everyone who remembers her is in this room- You, me, and Gabriel over there . . . why are you invisible, brother?"

Castiel turned to where Uriel gestured, looking at an oddly shimming space next to the frowning Sam. If there was another angel- especially an archangel- he should have been able to feel it. Why couldn't he?

"We~ll. . ." came a disembodied voice. "The, uh, Winchesters may have met me before under somewhat. . . um. . . unpleasant circumstances . . . You know, back when I wasn't in _my_ right mind either. . . theykindadontlikeme. . ."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Loki?" he scowled.

Castiel stifled a gasp as the shimmer dissolved to reveal the unmistakable presence of an archangel studiously avoiding the eyes of everyone around him. "Eh. . . hiya Sam. How's things?"

"You killed my brother." Sam replied flatly. "Over a hundred times."

 _Oh dear_ , Castiel thought. That wasn't good.

"In one day."

"Oh dear," Anael's voice echoed Castiel's thoughts.

"And as promised, we left and stayed away. So _why are you here?_ " There was a quiet authority in Sam's voice that Castiel had not heard before. He watched as the archangel responded to it, lifting his eyes to meet those of the human.

"What I did was wrong," Gabriel admitted, raising empty palms before himself. "But if it's any help, it was _your_ pleading that woke me up to the real problem here. And because of that, I owe you. A _lot_. So I was here to patch you up a bit after the fight. Great job with Alistair, by the way."

Silence fell again as Sam weighed the angel's words.

"Hold on," Dean scowled as his shoulders squared. "How'd you know we'd be here and there'd be a fight? Have you been following us?"

A crooked grin slid across Gabriel's face. "You?" his eyes flickered to Castiel, before returning to Dean's. "No way am I following _you_ or in anyway harassing _you_ or subtly trying to heal _you_ without you noticing. Sam, however, _yes_."

A moment. "Wait a minute-!"

_Everybody was Kung-Fu fighting~!_

Sam startled, then rummaged in a pocket for his phone.

_Those cats was fast as lightn-_

"Oh hey, Bobby, what's up?"

Dean grunted in mild confusion as Sam immediately ignored everything that had just been happening.

"A package for Cas? Who the-"

All attention was on the phone, now, straining to hear Bobby's tinny voice.

_"I was stunned myself. Addressed to Mr. Cas T. L. Godson-Winchester, care of Bobby Singer, Singer Salvage blah blah blah. . . but the return address isn't real . . ."_

"How do you know- did you look it up?"

_"Dammit, boy, I'm not your type of idjit. It was from Xavier's Academy for Gifted Youths!"_

"Ah."

The three older angels shared a wry grin, Gabriel barely withholding a snicker. "Little Bro, go get your mail. If you're lucky, it's almost as good as the ice-cream cake I got. . ."

.

The flat-rate USPS box was carefully placed in the middle of the small devil's trap that Bobby had scrawled on an old rag with a marker.

"My brothers and sister agreed that this would not be harmful. . . but such caution _is_ prudent." Cas growled, passing the third bottle of holy water to Dean. Warily, he reached out, and gently pulled the tab to open the box. When nothing happened after a few moments, he carefully lifted the box, and shook the contents onto the trap.

It was a plain wooden jewelery box, shallow and broad, glowing symbols scrawled on top. For a moment, the angel was perfectly, utterly still. _"Impossible,"_ he breathed.

"What is it? Do we need to soak it?" Dean asked nervously.

"No," Castiel glanced up, placing a reassuring hand on his charge's arm. "It's safe. It's . . . _mine_ , somehow. . ." He paused, carefully formulating his words. "That's grace. _My_ grace. Grace is unique to each angel- like human blood to a human. But, when manipulated, it _always_ takes on the identity of the being manipulating it. Like. . . if Sam wrote a message in your blood, Dean, but in doing so, it became _his_ blood. . ." He glanced up to see that they were following, if only barely. "This message is written in my Grace, which means that in all of Creation, only I could have done it."

"Okay. . . " Sam nodded. "So what does it say?"

Castiel's head cocked slightly to the side. "It says: ' _I Am a Fail-Safe. If Forgotten, Open and Remember_.'"

Dean frowned. "Well, if you wrote that, it must be safe for you, right?"

The angel nodded as he delicately loosed the catch and lifted the lid.

Chiming music sounded as gears whirred into action, the scents of jasmine, leather, cinnamon and a very faint hint of char carried on the shimmering sound. A long bronze scroll plucked a dark silver comb, shaped oddly, the tips of each segment sparkling in the late afternoon light.

"It looks like a feather," Sam noted. "See how it curves . . . "

"No, it's a knife." Dean disagreed. "Look how sharp those edges are. . ."

"It's playing that song from _Casablanca_ ," Bobby pointed out.

Castiel smiled, the words coming unbidden to his lips.

_"You must remember this,_

_a kiss is just a kiss_

_a sigh is just a sigh_

_the fundamental things apply_

_as time goes by. . ."_

"Cas can sing?" Dean sounded surprised.

"I _am_ an angel, Dean. Of course I can sing." He reached out for the source of the music. "I know the concept is not-"

He hand convulsed around the sharp edges of the metal as memories flooded. Overwhelmed, he barely heard the humans cry out in alarm, barely registered the pain in his hand as the metal sliced through skin, images and sounds drowning him in a raging torrent of memories spanning millenia.

Somewhere between the penguins and corsairs and monoliths, the pain in his hand reasserted itself, drawing his focus enough to remember who he was, and when he was supposed to be. He knew he had to at least start re-integrating the memories, start the sorting process, so he swam through the dancing and hunting and weeping and celebrations to find the first one, the oldest . . . no sooner had he started to sort, then it presented itself, flaring like a supernova . . .

.

He was walking beside Gabriel, Hizkiel off on some errand for the archangel as they cleaned up from the day's work, helping a young woman with a difficult childbirth- her name was Sarah, and she had been older than most human females having a child.

"You did well, Cassiel," the archangel said. "You could do a lot of this work by yourself. If I didn't like it so much, I'd be tempted to let you take over."

The younger angel ducked his head, reluctant to show his pleasure at the kind words.

"For that reason," the elder continued. "I've told Father and my brothers that you are ready to start your apprenticeship."

"But Gabriel-" the younger protested. He liked Gabriel. Michael and Raphael were well enough, although he hadn't worked with them as much. . . but Gabriel was more . . . relaxed. Not as stern as Michael nor hyper-active as Raphael.

"Cas," The archangel grinned. "You were created for so much more than helping tutor pre-born babies or following after me. I've taught you until now because we both have an affinity for storms, and you needed to be comfortable with your talents in that area. But for what Father created you for. . . there's only one angel in all of heaven or hell that can teach you those skills. . ."

He paused as he skipped the younger past the Ophanim-barrier currently guarding the Throne Room. They edged in, Gabriel shepherding the younger through to his usual spot beside Michael, only one seat away from Father.

"Gabriel," The latter greeted. "And Cassiel. Good."

Cassiel was surprised that Michael would remember him, but was distracted as a commotion at the other end of the room drew his attention.

The mass of angels seemed to draw back in something like unease, a dissonance making it's way forward. The form was more feminine than anything else and, Cassiel decided, certainly an angel, though unlike any he'd ever encountered. Her form was made of graceful angles, sharp and simple. There was a focus to her, a tension that expressed itself as dissonance. However, he could see connections between her and others in the room, and the interaction of each connection was an entire symphony. A playful scherzo with Anael, a sorrowful lullaby with Gabriel, a complex interchange of rhythm with Uriel, a stirring march with Michael, joyful trumpets pealing out with happiness and joy along the connection they had.

Cassiel could see that she was holding something very bright near the center of her being, but the view was obscured as she dropped to prostrate herself before their Creator.

"Grandfather," the modal intervals of her song immediately intrigued the young angel. "I have successfully completed the mission you gave me." She held out the radiating brightness. "Papa has impressed upon him the base equations of his being. When the time comes, they will find compatibility."

The young angel wasn't sure what was going on- he was pretty sure that the brightness was a human soul. But why was there a special mission for it to receive it's base patterning?

Metatron's wings flared as the Word precipitated. **_It is Good, Jophiel. Gabriel, come take this little one into your care._**

With delicate care, Gabriel gathered up the little soul, startled as a small tendril of light reached out to tangle in his grace.

"Father? This is. . . unusual . . ." Gabriel had once explained that newly crafted Souls were serene little things, not entirely awake until much closer to their time to be transferred.

_**Peace, Gabriel. It is Good. Are you displeased?** _

"Just surprised is all." the archangel seemed entranced by the light in his arms. "He is. . . precocious. And precious. . ." He seemed lost in thought for a moment, before lifting his eyes to the angel named Jophiel. "As requested, I brought Cassiel with me- he's over next to Michael. I think you'll find him a good student. _Do_ let him visit, sometimes. . . "

As though released from a hold, Jophiel sped over to Michael, the two of them embracing tightly. "Daddy!" She exclaimed. "Papa sends his love . . ."

Cassiel studied her closer as the two chatted. It was clear that she was made up partly of Michael's essence- her sharp, angular wings seemed natural weapons, her grace showing the same predatory lines and shapes that his made. But there were other elements, chaotic influences that he was unfamiliar with. Hearing his name caught his attention again.

"This is Cassiel," Michael said. "As his name implies, he is fast. Faster than you, even, though not quite as agile. I've seen him at work in the nurseries- he's a natural with human souls, very careful and extraordinarily protective. Father created him for that special mission, so you'll have to teach him everything you know."

The archangel then turned to address Cassiel directly. "Cassiel, this is my daughter. Father named her Jophiel upon her creation, but everyone else calls her Zophiel. You now report to her, and only to her. She has special skills and knowledge that you will need, and she is the only one who can teach you."

Cassiel regarded the strange angel for a long moment, his regard returned in full. Then she smiled. "Well, little uncle, if you're going to be my student, you'll need a working name. Mine is Zophiel- that is how you will address me. That, or "Sensei" will also work. Hold the name Grandpa gave you close- it will be the first of many secrets you will need to keep. Your working name . . . will be Castiel."

_Castiel!_

_Cas!_

.

"Cas, you okay buddy?!" Dean's voice pulled him from memory. "Shit, was the knife poisoned or something?"

"I am fine," he managed to form the words in English, eyes focusing on the red drops falling from his hand. "Getting back several thousand years of memories at once is quite disorienting." He released a gust of breath, turning his intense gaze to his charge. "They took my name, Dean. _My name_. They took my . . . my _sensei_. They tore my Grace and shredded my mind and shattered my memories . . . They even tried to take _you_ from me. But they couldn't . . . not truly . . ."

.

"Alright, Cas, special mission for you. Let's go!"

He pouted, sliding lower into the steaming water. " _Now_ , Sensei? I just got the last of the blood out of my hair. . . and there's still some under my nails . . . "

"Destiny waits for no man." Her head popped into his line of sight. "Or angel. C'mon, Tiger! You'll thank me when it's over."

The next instant he was standing by her side. "Where to?"

She smirked.

*Blink*

Cas frowned. Such concentrated masses of Ophanim signaled only one location. "This mission involves The Throne?"

Zophiel nodded. "Get past them on your own. Grandpa's working on a special project- your mission is to watch Him without any angel catching you. Don't try to hide from Him, that's impossible. Just _get_ to Him." She met his eyes. "If you are successful in your mission, you will be promoted out of this apprenticeship and will be assigned to a garrison under the direct command of an Archangel. You'll still be my student, and we'll still work together, but you'll have a lot more of your own work. _Full-fledged_ , you might say."

Cas mulled this over for a moment. "So, I have to get past the ever vigilant Ophanim, past the Kerubim and Seraphim, get to Father, and just. . . watch Him?"

"Pretty much. And, of course, if He says anything to you, _do what He says."_

"Any other rules?"

She shrugged. "No permanent damage. And . . . " she held her hands apart in front of her face. "You've only this amount of time."

Considering some of the tasks she'd assigned him in the past, this one seemed pretty easy. Sure, the Ophanim were impressive with their ever-vigilant gaze, but they were also a bit high strung. The Kerubim after them were also impressive in their own right, but seeing as one of their main chiefs had just given him this mission, they wouldn't be a problem. And the Seraphs would assume that if he made it that far and hadn't burned into nothingness, that he was right where he should be. So really, the only challenge here was getting past the restless and ever vigilant Ophanim.

"No problem," he grinned as he walked away.

Balthazar, as expected, was quite taken with the plan. Not that he knew most of it- but all Cas had to say was "I need someone to steal the Zabkiel's Spear for a moment . . . "

It was useful know the Patron of Those Suffering from Kleptomania.

A casual stroll up to Zabkiel, a polite "Excuse me, young one, but- hey, my spear! Give it back!" and Zabkiel's departure after the fleeing Balthazar left the tiniest of openings. Swiftly, Castiel reached out, becoming a needle of energy, before snapping forward to land among the Kerubim.

Slowly, he re-formed, holding out the memory of Zophiel giving him the mission. He resolutely stood his ground as the monstrous forms of the assembled Kerubim bent low to inspect, their wings fluttering in a constant chatter of Numbers and Words.

 _Interesting. .._ they whispered. . . _crux of probability . . . shift in variable. . ._

A breeze of data passed through their wings, incomprehensible to Castiel. _. . . Ah . . . and just so! . . .fascinating . . ._

_. . . Through the Eternal Fire lies your being. Go, Swift Shadow, and Burn with Unceasing Flame. . ._

It seemed a blessing, though strange, and their wings parted to allow his passage.

And he _burned._

Unlike the fires of Hell, these flames were only painful inasmuch as they were so incredibly _sweet_ and consuming. No angel had a defense against such fire, and it would be so easy to just let himself burn forever. . . but no, if he did, he'd never learn why Sensei had been to exited to give him this mission . . . he'd never learn what the Kerubim meant . . .

Slowly, with no little regret, Castiel pulled himself through the burning Seraphs, moving toward the heart of their attention while at the same time trying to _not-ignite_ into the same fire with which they burned. It took all his focus, all the discipline Sensei had instilled in him when teaching him to navigate the Hell-Winds, or to observe the birth of a star.

And then, after a brief eternity, the pressure released. As he gathered his senses, he heard Michael's voice, soft and warm.

". . . he'll need to be equal parts belligerence and devotion if he's to withstand. . . that intensity will make these other things more difficult. . . but otherwise, it looks good to me . . ."

 ** _It is_ Good.** Castiel's eyes widened at his Father's voice, un-modulated by Metatron's interface. _**Cassiel, my child, come stand before Me.**_

Cas quickly complied, standing before the shimmering brightness of his Father and his elder brother. He glanced toward Michael, relieved that the archangel seemed pleased at his presence.

"Hold out your hands, Little Brother," the latter said. "Father has something to show you."

He complied, remembering all the little gifts Sensei had presented in a similar fashion- flowers, frogs, his first blade. . .

His Father leaned forward, placing His Hands lightly atop those presented by the angel, and then _Breathed_ into the small space between.

He gasped as bright light sparked and ignited, a burning similar to that of the Seraphs starting to run up his arms. Cas had learned from Gabriel that human souls were loved into being, but this was the first time he'd witnessed the feat. His Father carefully withdrew His Hands as Michael leaned forward to see the new human soul held so carefully in Castiel's hands.

Cautiously, Castiel brought his hands up for a closer look at the impossibly bright being newly formed in his own hands. In all his journeys through Heaven, Earth and Hell, he'd never seen anything half so wondrous as this radiating soul. His Father's spark was bright and strong, the influence of Michael's forming showing in the initial patterning, but. . .

Castiel was mesmerized, watching as the soul shifted and flickered, already awake and reaching out in curiosity. Delight shuddered through his being as the soul reached out to his grace, arcing and crackling with raw power and sheer, pure _being_. Castiel sighed as he breathed in the fragrance of summertime and laughter, the taste of sunshine and music filling his mouth.

_Amazing!_

"What do you think of him, Little Brother?"

Castiel tried to sum up his awestruck thoughts. Somehow, even the words "perfect", "wonderful", and "awesome" fell short.

Instead, he settled for "I think . . . I want to hold him forever. . . to protect him. . . and. . . " the next words failed unborn as he was washed in the need to _taste_ , again, to fold the bright, burning soul in his grace and never let it go.

He felt his Father smile. _**Do you Love** **him?**_

Castiel felt a swift spike of fear as he glanced up guiltily. "Is that bad?"

_**It is Good. With your permission, I would make it permanent in you, that no matter what may happen, you will not forget this love . .** . **He will need you and your love when the time comes . . .**_

Castiel smiled then. "You may." He never wanted to forget this soul. He didn't stop smiling as that love was carved into every strand of grace that made his being.

.

The same bright soul that smelled of summer was even now before his eyes. Castiel grinned as all the rest of the memories fell into place in his mind, understanding clicking into place as they did.

Absently, he healed his bleeding hand. "Dean. . . " how he wanted to taste that sunshine again!

 _This is what we call Desire. . ._ Zophiel's voice murmured in his mind.

"Yeah Cas? Everything okay, Buddy?"

"Dean! I remember now! I remember your beginning!" He forcefully kept his need to embrace the soul in check- that soul was now fiercely independent, and the last thing he wanted to do was "freak Dean out" anymore than necessary. "And Sam! And Bobby!" He felt his grin threatening to break his borrowed face, but everything was finally making sense! And-

"And you guys gotta meet Sensei!" He grabbed Dean's hand as he lunged for Bobby's front door. "You guys are gonna love her! Come on!"


	5. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. . . between last chapter and this, I saw season 8 and the first 3 eps of season 9. I swear, I had no idea about John's Music box from Henry. Also, Abbadon is awesome. And everything in this chapter had been decided before seeing anything of season 9. May think about bringing in those characters later. We'll see.
> 
> Please remember that Bobby knowing Japanese is totally canon. (yatta!)

_When Thou didst regard me,_  
Thine eyes imprinted in me Thy grace:   
_For this didst Thou love me again,_   
_And thereby mine eyes did merit_   
_To adore what in Thee they saw._

-St. John of the Cross

* * *

 

 

Dean Winchester considered himself a hard man to surprise. After all he'd seen, all he'd experienced-- hunting wendigos, vampires and every kind of angry spirit on the continent, dying, coming back, getting chewed up by hell-hounds, going to hell, coming back _again_ , meeting a _for-frickin'-real_ angel, learning his brother was a demon-blood junkie, meeting _more_ angels . . . what was supposed to surprise him anymore?

Turned out there were a few things left to experience.

First was the surprising not-quite-admission that the Archangel Gabriel was stalking his little brother. A little disturbing, but as Dean actually kinda liked the guy, he figured it could have been worse. Like. . . _Ruby_ -worse. . .

Next was the fact that the only other angel he liked-- and he really was coming to like the little guy quite a bit-- had memory problems. And was apparently not alone in that. _How the hell did angels get spotty memories?_

When the strange feather-knife-music-box thing had drawn blood from Castiel, that had been a surprise, because not even Ruby's knife had managed that, but what happened next was the real surprise-- the way the angel's face first blanked in confusion, then softened, and then seemed to thaw and become _more_. As though the angel had, all this time, been distant, but had suddenly, in that moment, finally arrived.

This was swiftly followed by the angel turning into a human-shaped puppy.

That was the only way Dean could describe the way Castiel's face lit up, his entire being thrumming with barely suppressed energy as he literally pulled Dean out the front door of Bobby's house, the older man and his brother running after.

Dean was just managing to find his feet again when Castiel's hand was torn from his, the angel falling to the ground on his rear from the impact of something dark and. . . clingy. . . with quite nice curves . . .

Dean stepped back a few steps, his mind splitting in half over how to react. One part of his brain, seeing his friend's face buried between the twin swells of a _lovely_ rack, started cheering. _Awright, Cas! Way to go, buddy!_

Another part of his brain got surly. _Who the hell is this tramp throwing herself all over my angel?!_

As a result, no words came forth as his mouth opened in disbelief.

“Way to go, Cas!” Apparently, Sam didn't suffer from the same mental problems that Dean did.

He saw the chick smirk against Castiel's hair, before she pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head and stood. “Stand up,” she said. “Let me get a good look at my student.”

Cas stood awkwardly under her gaze, shifting as her hands settled lightly upon his shoulders. “Oh, Little Uncle, you _are_ a mess. . . who is it did this to you, and when?”

Uncle? Angels. . . had . . . _uncles?_

Castiel shuffled. “Zachariah and Khamael, mostly. I was trying to get to Hell, to get to Dean. . . and then, when I came back, I was so tired. . . “ he sighed. “I am sorry to have disappointed you.” His shoulders slumped, eyes dropping to the dusty ground, former puppy-joy replaced with. . . rained-on-kitten.

She huffed. “Don't apologize for a thing that hasn't happened. Now, how about you dig out those manners I drilled into your cranium, and handle some introductions. . .”

“. . . yes.” Cas turned somewhat awkwardly to his audience. “This is my teacher, Zophiel. She's the one that taught me how to navigate Hell, among other things."

Dean blinked. Teacher? He would have thought that angels didn't need teachers, didn't need to learn things. . . wouldn't they just. . . _know_ shit?

"Sensei, this to our right is Samuel Winchester. He is my _friend._ ”

Dean smiled. About time one of those feathered dicks treated his brother right. Just 'cuz he picked up some bad habits, that didn't give anyone the right to give him crap like they had been. And, oh, look at that, little brother was blushing, telling her to call him "Sam".

“Of course, Little Spark . . .” calloused hands framed Sam's face. “It's so _very_ good to see you again, though I'm sure you wouldn't remember me now. . .”

“We've met?” Sam looked just as shocked as Castiel at the news, and Dean frowned. He could have sworn that Cas was the first angel they'd met.

“Hmmm, long, long ago. Uncle, you remember when we first met, I had just returned from a special mission with a very special little soul?”

Cas nodded. “That was Sam?”

“I would never forget such a radiant soul. Still bright, under all our family's mucking about. Don't you worry, Sam, we'll get this sorted.” She stood on her toes and pulled his face down to press a kiss to his forhead. “Once under my protection, _always_ under my protection.”

Dean didn't know what this was all about, but he knew damn sure he'd find out. Too many damned angels had been screwing with his family, dammit, and this broad was hinting that it had been going on even longer than they'd thought?

He watched as Zophiel turned. “This man needs no introduction.” She smiled, bowing from the waist. “Ohisashiburi desu ne, Bobbi-kun!” Great. Fucking Japanese, now.

Bobby reflexively bowed back. “Tenchi-sama? Forgive me, but I do not remember your face. . .”

“Because I was wearing a different one at the time. Do you remember Shino-chan?”

“You--!” Bobby gaped. “You introduced me to my wife. . . when I was in Iga-shi. . .”

“Karen and you were the entire reason I was in Japan at the time.” Dean found himself growing uneasy-- she'd been messing around with Bobby's life, all those years ago? _Not cool_. Well, great that she introduced him to the love of his life, but still. . .

“Why?”

Zophiel glanced at the two other humans. “I think, Bobby, this is a conversation you may wish to have with some privacy.”

Bobby seemed to recall himself, rubbing a hand over his cap. “Yeah, most like. . .”

She then turned to Dean. “And this, Cas?” Gun's 'N Roses tee-shirt? Well, at least it wasn't some damn boy-band. . .

Castiel grinned. “Sensei, _this_ is _Dean_.” A whole world of meaning seemed to be conveyed in those words, Dean now feeling the full weight of her appraisal. She was, visually speaking, probably the most unremarkable female he'd ever seen, despite the nice curves. Mousy brown hair pulled back in a plain scrunchie, eyes of no special color, a few freckles, an utterly average face, height and build . . . a face that could go on any young woman anywhere in America, and totally blend in with the crowd.

Had Dean been almost any other man, that's all he would have seen. But the deep stillness _behind_ her eyes proclaimed her something else. There was something, almost familiar, about that quiet, unwavering assesment. Something used to long waits. Something very, _very_ patient.

“Well then,” she said, stepping forward. “Let's have a look at you.” she reached forward, turning Dean's jaw one way, then the other. “You _are_ a handsome one, aren't you? And strong. . .”

“I broke.” The confession was past his lips before the thought even registered, eyes widening as the information poured forth. “In Hell, I . . .” Dean dropped his eyes from her gaze. “I broke.”

“Everyone breaks,” she replied, drawing his gaze back to her own. “Everyone falls apart. Even the Son, in the Garden of Gethsemane. _Everyone_. The question is, have you stood back up after falling down? Have you picked up your broken pieces and kept moving forward?” The patience was unchanged, but now layered with. . . something earnest. Such sincerity was something he had failed to find in any angel except Cas.

“Best as I can,” Dean mumbled, disconcerted.

“See? You _are_ strong.” She smiled, and it reminded Dean of something, or someone . . . long ago. “Now, Dean, I know we've only just met but, for the sake of someone dear to both of us, I must ask a favor of you.”

“Yeah?” What could this angel need from a human like himself? Such requests were generally _not_ things like "Run to the grocery store and pick up some milk. . ."

“Please heal my student.”

Dean's brain braked hard. “Cas? Cas is hurt?”

She looked back at Castiel over her shoulder. “Before he rescued you, and again after. He tried to get to you sooner, but Zachariah and Khamael hurt him.” She turned back, eyes wide and solemn. “They broke his wings, Dean, and shredded his Grace before he escaped them and flew down to retrieve you.”

 Damn. Just. . . Damn. _Really?_

“Cas?” Dean shook his head, trying to understand. “You flew through Hell . . . on broken wings. . . and pulled me out. . . didn't that _hurt?_ ”

 And double-damned if this whole situation wasn't quickly degrading into "Chick-flick" territory!

Castiel shrugged. “Pain is a thing to be endured.” He frowned. “To be honest, after the re-education when I returned, I didn't really remember what pain was, or what it was like without it, so it's really not a problem.”

Well, fuck.

Dean blinked, distressed. “Cas, _geeze_. . . Look, Lady,” he turned back to the woman in front of him. “I'd love to help Cas, I _really_ would. But I'm just a human. I can't heal anybody, much less an angel.”

She huffed, stepping back. “Shows what you know,” she smirked. “Humans cannot heal each other or themselves the way an angel can heal them. Likewise, angels cannot heal themselves or each other in the same way that a human can. _They are complimentary species. Deliberately designed to be so._ Just as every angel has an instinctive knowledge of how to heal a human body, so too every human possesses an instinctive knowledge of how to heal an angel's form.”

“Really? 'Cuz I'm pretty sure I've got no idea how to fix Cas.” Dean scowled, but she only grinned brighter.

“Of course you do. Your mother used to show you all the time. . .” She smirked. “One hint-- just as proximity to an angel eases a human, so too proximity to a trusted human eases an angel. For the rest. . . give it some time. This is one of those things you have to work out for yourself. In the mean time. . .” she turned back to Bobby. “Bobbi-kun, do I have your permission to enter your property?”

“Of course,” he offered her his arm, and she chuckled as she took it.

“And perhaps your kitchen?”

“You've a mind to cook?” Bobby asked as they started walking back to the house.

“Well, Castiel has surely remembered how to make my special apple pie, and I could go for a nice roast beef. . .” She reached out, hooking her free arm through Sam's. “So could you, Big 'un. While I applaud your skills at veggie eating, you really need more proper protein. If I were your teacher, I'd give you a knife and tell you to come back with a deer for supper. But, since I'm _not_ your teacher, I'm letting you off easy . . .”

 . . . Pie?

"Did she just mention pie, Cas?"

"Indeed."

Huhn. "I guess she can't be _that_ bad, then. . ." He reached out, taking the angel's hand as he started to walk back toward the house.

"Dean. . . your 'personal space' . . ."

"Didn't know I was hurting you. Sorry about that."

Cas huffed. "You didn't hurt me. It was Zachariah and Khamael. And a little bit Uriel, but he's trying to make that up to me. . ."

Dean glared at the mention of the other angels. "Maybe I didn't hurt you directly, but every time you sought comfort, I pushed you away. Now I know better. And until I figure out how to help fix you, then I can handle being awkward. . ."

 Dean deliberately did _not_ think about how right it felt to be holding the angel's hand.

* * *

 

 

Privately, Dean was at a loss. He didn't have any special powers. He was just a human. He could gank near any monster that threatened his family, but that was pretty much the extent of his talents. He huffed, slicing the apple before depositing the pieces in the bowl of sugar and spices between himself and Castiel. And his knife skills were pretty good, though he wasn't sure if that was due mostly to being raised as a hunter, or from. . . more recent experiences.

The roast in the oven was starting to smell, making Dean's mouth water as he picked up the last apple to peel, core and slice. Sam came into the kitchen, notebook in hand, Bobby following with a tumbler of whiskey.

"So. . ." Sam started. "Here's what we found. Don't know how accurate it is though. . ."

Zophiel glanced over from her place near the oven. "Oh, I'll want to hear this. . . " she smiled, reaching to  hand Castiel a rolling pin  for the dough he was taking out of the refrigerator.

"OK," Sam settled in, consulting his notes before launching into his "note-lecturing" voice. "So, the name Zophiel means 'God's Eyes', but this is also interpreted as 'God's Spy'. According to legend, Zophiel fell during the first war in Heaven, but only not really-- when Lucifer moved to attack Heaven, Zophiel-- who was the fastest of the Cherubim-- secretly raced ahead, and warned Heaven of the impending attack. Thus earning the title 'Herald of Hell.' There is some debate as to whether Zophiel truly fell, but then changed her mind, or if she never really fell, but was always functioning as a spy in Hell, successfully deceiving everyone in Hell into believing that she was with them. Zophiel is also listed as one of the two main assistants to the Archangel Michael when he goes into battle, along with an angel named Zadkiel. Some of what we found lists Zophiel as a chief of either the Cherubim or the Ophanim, depending on whether or not Zophiel is considered equivalent to Zaphkiel, which would also make her a ruler of the planet Saturn-- but that is apparently also still up for debate. . . "

He trailed off, finally looking up from his notes. "Everything else we found was just repetition of all this . . . there really does seem to be an ongoing debate as to whether Zophiel fell or not, with some even splitting the difference and saying that she fell, but was never evil, which seems kinda. . . I dunno . . ."

All three of the humans were watching Zophiel. "Well," Bobby  finally prompted. "How accurate was that?"

She shrugged. "As far as it went, pretty close. Missing quite a bit, and some of it has a faulty premise but. . . all told, not bad."

Castiel finished rolling out the first pie crust, and delicately dropped it into the pie plate before dumping most--but not all-- of the apples in after.

"What did I miss?" Sam looked ready to add to his notes. She smiled, leaning back against the counter.

"Nothing, sweetie. It isn't there to be found. Part of being 'God's Spy' means trying to keep a low profile, even if I am one of Daddy's chief assistants. . ."

Sam scribbled. "So,  Michael the Archangel is your father?"

"One of. He's my Daddy."

"Hn." Dean grunted. "So who's your mother?"

"Don't have one, as such." She eyed the timer on the roast, reaching for the bottle of worchestershire sauce as it ticked below one minute. "One could say that nature stepped in as mother, but that was more of a self-preservation-reaction than anything. . . so I don't really count 'The Universe' as a mother. Not really."

Dean mulled over what he'd heard. "And your other father?"

She was saved from answering for a few minutes as the timer went of, and she pulled out the roasting pan to pour the sauce over the roast before putting it back in for another twenty minutes. Oven closed again, she sighed, leaning back against the counter again.

"You don't trust me enough for me to answer that."

Dean scowled at the non-answer. _What kind of bullshit was tha_ \-- his mind braked hard, reminding him of all the times he and Sammy had bullshitted civilians about things they'd encountered, because they simply wouldn't have been able to handle anything resembling the truth. At least she was being somewhat honest about it.

 "Cas?"

The angel smiled as he finished pinching the edges of the pie crust together. "I believe Sensei's view to be correct-- you don't trust her enough for that knowledge. I think you'd have to hear it from Michael himself, and even then  . . ." He shrugged, delicately slicing vents in the top crust. "I trust her, though. And I think you'll find that so do Anael and the others we met today. . ."

"Auntie Anna remembers me, too?" Zophiel looked surprised.

"Yes," Castiel finished sprinkling sugar over the top of the pie. "Uriel returned her grace to her this morning. Gabriel was there, too. They all remembered you. . . before me . . ."

Silence fell over the kitchen then, everyone lost in their own thoughts. Dean shifted.

"So, Zee . . . why did those angels beat up on Cas when he wanted to come get me?"

She huffed. "Damned if I know. From what I can tell, with a few exceptions, the entire Host has turned into a bunch of angry, arrogant, brain-damaged douche-nozzles."

Bobby nearly spit whiskey out of his nose. "Well, don't hold back or nothin' . .. "

"They weren't always like this, though. . . " she frowned, pulling out a chair to sit. "We used to be. . . happy. _Joyous_ , even. Then I had to go do some deep-cover work, which meant little to no communication. . . come back and no one remembers me, my intelligence networks are missing, and half the angels have undergone severe personality changes. And, from what I've seen, they've pulled up some crazy seal-nonsense . . ."

"They intend to start the Apocalypse," Castiel supplied as he took of his apron and sat down. "That's why they delayed my rescue-- they needed Dean to break. They have also planned on feeding a lot of misinformation to both of you--" he motioned to the two brothers, "but especially to Sam, to lead him into killing Lilith."

"Wow, talk about mixed feelings," Zophiel sighed. "One the one hand, the Apocalypse, which sucks as this world isn't nearly ready for that sort of thing. . . but, on the other hand, Lilith _finally_ dead. Tough decision. . ."

Dean scowled, wanting to reach for Bobby's whiskey. "So now what? You say the Host of Heaven has gone off the rails, is actually trying to get the Apocalypse to happen. . ."

Zophiel and Cas looked at each other. "Well," she pursed her lips. "First thing, we need to get Castiel all fixed up. I'll need to find Daddy, see if he's in the right mental state to come down and have a little Heaven-Earth summit with you all. Need to figure out why Heaven went pear-shaped . . . once we get that sorted, we may have a better idea of what needs to be done to get this universe back on track. . . "

* * *

 

Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd sat at a table for a meal like a normal person, doing the whole "pass the potatoes" bit. . . but here he was, in Bobby's kitchen stuffing his face with roast beef, rosemary bread slathered in butter and, at the stern-faced insistence of Zophiel, steamed green beans with almonds. To be fair, she'd given Sammy the same look when he tried to skip the meat, but no one had dared tell him what to eat since he was a boy, and he had to bite back the instinctive "You ain't the boss of me!" Because Bobby, the traitor, was totally backing her up.

As was Cas, but that was to be expected-- guy was an angel, she was his teacher. _Expected_.

So instead of complaining, he ate his veggies "Like a grown-ass man", as she had put it, and instead asked something.

"So. . . who's the extra place setting for?" he pointed with his knife to the place that had been set across from him, between Sam and Zophiel.

"With Bobby's gracious permission," she inclined her head to the man at the head of the table. "I set a place for Sam's guardian, should said angel wish to join us."

Dean snorted. "I don't think there's enough pixie sticks or lollypops on this table to lure him here . . ."

"Au contraire," she replied, sipping her wine. "Auntie's fidgeting in the doorway, like a kid that just accidentally broke the cookie jar. . ."

Dean twisted in his seat, not seeing anything at first.

"It's just . . ." Gabriel faded into view, leaning against the doorway. "Not exactly sure how welcome at this table I am . . ."

"Planning on killing Dean again. . . ever?" Sam scowled.

"Nope, think I worked that out of my system."

"Okay," Sam nudged the empty chair out from the table, Gabriel walking around the table to take a seat.

Dean broke the silence as the new addition served himself. "Why does Zee call you 'Auntie?', even though you are currently. . . " he gestured to Gabriel's form.

"Exceedingly macho, masculine, and handsome?"

"One of of three, at least."

Gabriel chuckled, his grin showing appreciation for someone who could dish as well as he got. "I'm in self-created witness protection, on the run from my own family." He sighed, remembering. "Before I ran, my most common, er. . . Earth-wear was a female form. Sometimes a guy, depending on the culture I was dealing with, but usually my duties were best carried out as a woman. There was a fair amount of mid-wifery. Like with Mary, her couzin Lizzy, things like that. . . Thus little Zee calls me Auntie."

Dean couldn't contain his curiosity, turning to Cas. "Have you ever been in a chick?"

Bobby and Sam guffawed  loudly, Gabriel and Zophiel containing themselves to merely snickering. "I didn't mean it like that!" Dean protested, glaring at them before turning a softened gaze back to Cas. "Just, have you even been on earth as a female?"

"A few times," Cas allowed. "Once in Japan, I was a Temple Maiden. . . and there was this time in the late nineteenth century when I was a maid in a lovely manor just north of Marseilles . . ."

Dean shifted in his seat, his mind veering away from just how that thought impacted his brain.

"He had the most _adorable_ little outfit," Zophiel added with a teasing smirk. "I wonder what ever happened to that feather-duster?"

_Seriously?_

* * *

 

Then there was pie, fresh from the oven where it had been baking during supper. One for the table, brought over by Zophiel, and a smaller one, brought over by Cas.

"My own pie?" Dean grinned up at Castiel. "Just for me?"

"Just for you," Cas smiled as he sat down, accepting a wedge from his teacher. Dean examined the sugar-sprinkled crust, inhaling the steam coming out from the vents in the top crust. "Cas, this smells amazing. . ." Eagerly, he plunged his fork into the center, lifting out fruit and spices with a small piece of crust.

His eyes popped as the taste danced along his tastebuds, warm spicy-sweet-tartness exploding in his mouth with the very-slight crunch of crust. Almost reluctantly, he swallowed.

"Do you like it?" Castiel asked, almost hesitant.

"Do I?" He shoveled another forkful into his mouth. "Cas, this is the best damn pie I've ever had! And I _know_ from pie!"

"This is a damn fine pie," Bobby agreed, Sam nodding in agreement.

Gabriel hummed around his bite. "Not as overly sweet as many," He murmured. "I've always wondered how you keep the tartness perfectly balanced with the sweet."

Zophiel and Castiel shared a smile. "That's classified," they said together. Zophiel grinned, continuing. "Only four beings in all of creation know-- Grandpa, Papa, Little Uncle and me. No one else is cleared for it."

"Not even Michael?" Bobby asked around his bite.

"Nope," Zophiel lazily shook her head. "He's never asked. And I'm pretty sure Papa would be upset if I told."

"And upsetting Papa is something no one ever wants to do. . ." Gabriel noted, serving himself the last slice of pie. "You think he remembers you at the moment?"

She leaned back in her chair. "I exist." She said after a moment of thought. "That existance never ceased. So clearly Grandpa never forgot me. Also, I'm on Earth, which implies that at least one of my parents remembered. Considering that my cover was not blown, that would imply that at the very least, Papa retained memory of me. Don't know about Daddy, though. Flying is not _quite_ as easy as it ought to be. But it is still possible. So that remains to be seen. . ."

"You figure this, simply because of the fact that you exist?" Sam asked, frowning at his plate, now empty of even crumbs.

Gabriel pursed his lips, then slid his plate with the remaining pie, over to Sam. "Yes. Observationality, they call it these days." He turned to Bobby. "You have a copy of Julian's _Revelations of Divine Love_ handy?"

Bobby nodded, rising from his place to go rummage, while Dean marveled at the thing he had just seen. Gabriel, notorious lover of all sweet things, had given the last piece of pie to Sam. Damn. That was real love, right there, giving someone else the last piece of pie. . .

Gabriel lifted his eyes to Dean's considering glare. "You got something to say?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, the usual. You hurt my little brother, I'll find a way to end you. Hopefully with great pain. Other than that, you kids have fun, make sure he's back before curfew . . . do angels need to worry about protection?"

"Dean!" Sam spluttered, blushing from his hair down his neck.

Gabriel chuckled. "Fair enough. And right back at you."

"Wait, what?"

Gabriel was saved from having to say anything more by by Bobby's return, handing him the old, tattered book.

"Alright," Gabriel said, flipping through the pages. "Let's see, it was in the first Revelation, Chapter five. . . ah, here, Sam, read this."

Sam swallowed the last of the pie, politely wiped his mouth on the napkin, and started reading where Gabriel was pointing. " _He shewed me a little thing, the quantity of an hazel-nut, in the palm of my hand; and it was as round as a ball. I looked thereupon with eye of my understanding, and thought: What may this be? And it was answered generally thus: It is all that is made. I marvelled how it might last, for methought it might suddenly have fallen to naught for little. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasteth, and ever shall for that God loveth it. And so All-thing hath the Being by the love of God."_

There was a moment of silence as Gabriel closed the book and set it aside.

". . . is that really true?" Sam asked in a small voice.

"Completely." The archangel replied.

"So, anything that exists, exists because God loves it?" Dean couldn't keep the skepticism out of his voice. "Even demons?"

"To horribly over simplify it, yes." Gabriel replied. "He loves those demons that were human, because even though they have become demons, they are still, at their inner most core, human.  Very, very _sick_ humans, but still His children. The _Others_ exist as natural reflections of the Angels, and it is the angels He loves. And His Creation, and His Law, all of which result in the Others. . . So those exist not because He loves them, but as the result of His love for everything else. . ."

Dean frowned, roiling skepticism and doubts tangling the questions in his mind.

"That sure is something to wrap one's mind around . . ." Bobby ventured.

"Yeah, I wouldn't push it," Zophiel said. "Just accept what you can, and let the rest stew in the back of your mind. You lot are smarter than you think you are, so you'll get it eventually. . ."

* * *

 

Dean wasn't sure about that. Sam was the smart one. Everyone knew that. Sammy was the brains, he was the brawn. It was a nice division of labor, one that he'd always been happy with. All of this weird, cryptic angel-shit, reading from dusty ol' mystics and crap . . . most of it went over his head. He sighed, carefully topping off Baby's brakefluid.

Zophiel had been around for a few days, and Dean still wasn't sure about her. Yeah, she was great with Sammy-- he'd overheard some of their conversations, and while he didn't get a lot of what they talked about, the kid did seem to be . . . more at ease with himself ever since. On the other hand, as free as she was with a lot of information --freer than any other angel they'd met, in fact-- she still had moments where she got cagey. Almost like a damned lawyer. She even admitted she was keeping some information from them. While he might have understood in the abstract, it still rubbed him the wrong way.

Bobby seemed to trust her. Those conversations he had no chance of understanding, because they were in Japanese, of all damned things. He glanced over Baby's hood, watching as the angel in question knelt in the dirt. Apparently, she'd had some discussion with Bobby about rehabilitating the garden that Karen had kept years before, for now the long bare patches were spotted with green sprounts and swiftly budding flowers. Not the mention the graceful, twisting cherry tree that had grown up overnight outside Bobby's window, the lilacs at the end of the driveway, the abundance of blackberries and roses at the edges of the property, and a ton of other things he couldn't identify. Well, the yarrow, he knew what that was, but apparently, it had uses _other_ than demon summoning.

He turned back to the job at hand. "Hey Cas, hand me the oil filter wrench. . ."

There was a pause. "Which one is the that, Dean?"

"It looks kinda like a stick with a belt at the end . . ."

"Oh. . . This one?"

Dean couldn't fight the smile. "That's the one." He also couldn't help the blush that covered his face when their hands brushed. "Let me show you how to change the oil filter." This, of cource, necessitated the both of them leaning over the hood, flush up against each other, as Dean fit the loop around the filter housing. Cas was warm against his side, but not uncomfortably so. It was a bit distracting, though, because the angel was warm in a way that Dean hadn't felt in a long, long time, and he really wanted to curl up in that warmth and sleep a while. It was that warmth of coming home in the winter, something that was relief, and safety, and shelter all at once.

Didn't help that his dreams had changed last night, really setting him off kilter. Like most of his dreams lately, it had been Hell, him hip deep in gore and viscera, using his favorite knife on some child-molesting scum, relishing the the way every cut he made also cut into his own being, as he slowly whittled away at his own existance. Sometimes, the churning gales would tear a rough patch open in the smoke and fog, and for a brief instant, he would catch a glimpse of a single, distant star-- but no sooner did he notice, than the window closed, and he was lost again in the burning, screaming tempest.

Suddenly, though, the constant screams and moaning had silenced, the ever-present demons falling back as something impossibly bright and pure had rocketed through the sky, hitting the ground like a blazing missile. The light resolved into a huge _something_. Where it stepped, filth retreated, its feet hitting plain rock. It was coming right for him!

Dean wanted to flee with the rest of the demons, but found himself transfixed by the shimmering, beautiful thing that approached. Absently, he dropped the knife, the ring of metal on stone distant beneath the growing swell of music as light approached. Peripherally, he saw some demons leap to attack, but the light whipped out, sending them flying away.

_**Dean Winchester**_. It knew his name! As it approached, it seemed to resolve into a smaller shape, whips of light flailing wildly about, but never threatening Dean. _Dean . . .,_ It spoke again, with a gentler voice, a melodic hush falling around the two of them as it stepped close. _I am here to rescue you_.

There was a faint, half memory of something that might have been a joke that whispered in Dean's memory, but it dissolved. "I have to keep Sammy safe," he shook his head. "If I'm here, he's alive. Gotta keep Sammy safe."

He felt more than saw the soft smile, the softening of the blue flames that Dean assumed were eyes. _You came to this place, your part of the deal was fulfilled. As was theirs. There is no deal anymore. Samuel, your beloved brother, lives. But he is not safe. And your presence here is Unjust. It is past time that you leave this place._

Dean shied away as it seemed to reach for him. "I'm dirty!" he objected. "You shouldn't--!" it was no use, as tendrils of light wrapped gently around him.

_Incorrect_. The thing said. _You are clean!_ Dean started, for as soon as it had spoken, it was so. Gone was the filth, the blood, the putrid fluids that had covered him. Gone were the deep, misfiguring cuts, the jagged, broken bones, the pus-seeping infections.

"Who-- _what_ are you?!"

Another smile, like a warm spring breeze through wind-chimes. _I am Castiel, I am an Angel of the Lord._

The dream had ended right there. It wasn't finished. Dean knew there was more. But it was more than he'd had. . .

* * *

 

Several nights later, Dean dreamed again.

Again, he was in Hell. Again, the glimpse of the star. Again, Castiel rocketed through the churning storms, somehow fixing the damage of Hell. This time, the dream continued.

"An. . . angel?" Dean shook his head. He'd never believed there were such beings. Demons, sure. All manner of nasty things. But angels? Nah, no way something like them could exist. Except, the presence of Castiel in front of him said otherwise. He looked again at the bright shining form before him. As strands of light resolved before his perception, he somehow understood that this mighty being was wounded, the whips of light were supposed to be connected to each other, but instead they'd been broken, snapped like broken currents.

Instinctively, he reached out and grabbed an errant current. To his amazement, it didn't hurt him like it did the demons-- the bright, sparking light was clean, fresh, and soft. And somehow, somehow, he knew exactly what to do, as he reached for the matching current and--

Dean awoke.

Or rather, he became aware being awake. He could see, but he could feel that his eyes were closed. He lifted himself off the bed and, clear in the darkness, saw himself in his pajamas, curled up to Castiel.

Focusing his attention on the angel, perception shifted, a single dimension of the angel's being unfolding before his sight.

_Someone messed up my work!_

He traced the broken currents with his sight, noticed the deceptively delicate lattice work that protected the soul of Castiel's vessel--it was the almost the only thing intact, Castiel using most of his grace to keep the soul safe. He glanced up to the twin flames regarding him calmly.

_You have remembered?_

"Yes." It wasn't spoken, so much, considering the circumstances. "Yeah, I got this."

He reached forward again, as before, finding two strands that matched, and brought them together. However, unlike before, they didn't hold together. He looked closer-- unlike before, when the wounds had been fresh and raw, they were now. . . it was like they had self-cauterized. He could tell that they were supposed to be one current of grace, but it was like when broken bones hadn't been set right before healing. How could he make them stay together long enough to properly re-fuse?

Unbidden, a memory of his mother came forth. He was a toddler, and had fallen down a hill, skining his knees and skins. Dad and taken him back to the house, where they had cleaned everything out, and then covered everything in Batman bandages. Then his mother had leaned down, and placed light kisses upon the bangages.

"There," she said. "Feel better?" And he had. Somehow, his mother's kisses had stopped the last of the stinging, and restored his bruised pride.

The memory faded again and, without thinking, Dean moved forward, kissing the joining of grace, thinking only of how important the angel had become to him, in such a short time.

He pulled back, then, watching the sunlight-on-starlight patch seep into the grace, holding it together while the current reconnected. Almost immediately, Castiel seemed to grow stronger.

_Dean!_ Castiel was suprised with his solution. _Dean, what is that?_

"Old family remedy from my Mom," he quipped, before getting back to work.

Time ceased it's meaning as Dean work through, matching grace to grace. Part of Dean wondered if perhaps he should be more upset over the solution, that fixing Cas meant kissing him, meant concentrating upon the very thoughts and feelings he'd been avoiding since the angel had first blown into the barn. But it as silenced beneath the echoing chorus of endless _"This is Castiel!"_ Besides, Cas was an angel, not really a "he." Sure he currently inhabited the body of a man, but that paled in comparison to the knowledge that Dean had always, _always_ known and loved Cas, even if he'd forgotten at times.

Sometime later, all the currents were re-established, grace thrumming like a well-tuned engine. Dean regarded Castiel once more. _One last thing. . ._

He moved forward, settling soul against grace, and breathed, soul and grace tangling gracefully as they kissed. Distantly, Dean thought he felt the world shake, but he didn't care. He hadn't known how long he'd waited for this, until it had happened. His whole being seemed to sigh in relief, as though it finally found where it was supposed to be all along.

Castiel shifted, gently pushing Dean back into himself. _We'll revisit this in the morning_ , Dean heard as darkness closed in.

 

Dean woke to sunlight and birdsong, his face pillowed on Castiel's chest. He blinked, seeing the angel looking stronger than ever before, emitting a faint glow in the morning sunlight. He blushed as he remembered the not-dream of the night before.

Castiel blinked, then narrrowed his eyes. "Is this the part where you 'freak out' and deny everything that happened last night?"

Dean frowned, then shook his head. "If it's okay with you, I'd like to skip that part, and get to the kissing part again. Can we do that?"

Castiel's relived grin was answer enough. Dean leaned forward, his lips stretching into a smile as his met the angel's.

_Awe-some._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Balthazar.
> 
> _Revelations of Divine Love_ was written by the mystic Julian of Norwich. The Wikipedia entry on her isn't bad, and is a good place to start, if interested.
> 
> St. John of the Cross is another mystic, who wrote some rather heady and beautiful poetry. Some based on the Song of Songs. The original Spanish is gorgeous, but the English works well, too.


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